Roman treasures

March 2, 2012

YESTERDAY evening we drove to the Cornalvo reservoir, 14km outside the World Heritage city of Merida – the last five of them down a single-track road through a nature reserve where we encountered a disconcerting amount of oncoming traffic, including a large lorry.

Passing each vehicle involved inching perilously close to the roadside embankment, and the trip, in search of black-shouldered kite and Spanish imperial eagle, was as unsuccessful as it was unnerving.

Which made it all the more impressive, on visiting Merida today, to discover that the Romans who created it as the capital of their westernmost province, Lusitania, built the 18-metre high, 200-metre wide dam at Cornalvo, along with another at the Proserpina reservoir, and a complex system of aqueducts and conduits, to provide their water supply. What a feat of engineering.

We spent a happy morning wandering among the extensive remains of the Romans’ theatre with its huge marble columns, the adjacent amphitheatre where men fought wild animals and each other for their lives, and the nearby circus, where chariot races were staged, as well as strolling through the modern city centre streets to find the Forum and an old Moorish fortress.

The city also boasts the National Museum of Roman Art, a cathedral-like modern red-brick building, beautifully lit and laid out, housing some of the finest finds from the area, and from Spain as a whole. We watched experts at work cleaning and piecing together elaborate mosaic floors, to be displayed on the walls as you might hang a rug.

Not that it’s all high culture in Merida. The leaflet we were handed extolling the city’s attractions included an advert for a shop specialising in local produce whose chief claim to fame was that its proprietor, one Nico Jiminez, features in the Guinness Book of Records for being – as far as I could make out with my unreliable Spanish - the carver of the longest continuous slice of ham.

Tapas and a vultures' banquet

March 1, 2012

A LOVELY day visiting the historic hilltop town of Caceres, with its warm sandy-coloured stone, wonky red roofs and mellow church bells. The narrow cobbled streets, lined with tall buildings, are perfectly cool even though this is the warmest day of our trip so far.

Storks, being no respecters of human grandeur, are nesting in large numbers on the heritage rooftops, and everywhere you hear the tapping of their bills, like drumsticks being hit together at high speed. With ‘bolardos elevados’ (take note, Journal colleagues) blocking the town centre to all but residents’ cars, it really is an extremely peaceful place.

I feared at one point that we’d have to miss it. The car park suggested by our camp site attendant was in the middle of another one of those mazes of steep, winding streets nearby, barely wide enough for a motorhome. When we got there, our van was too tall to get in. A fraught moment, but rescue appeared in the form of another lovely, friendly Spaniard who saw our worried faces and came up to point out the local coach park on the map.

With Glen intent on showing these foreigners how well-behaved a border collie can be, we plonked down at a shady table in the Plaza Mayor for some seriously good tapas – deep-fried mushroom croquette with coffee – yes, that’s right, coffee salad dressing, crab cakes, and the cheeks of some unspecified animal stuffed, Extremadura-style, and served with crushed potatoes. A bit daring for me, and I would like to say it proved ‘who dares, wins’, but I felt a bit dodgy later and had to go to bed early.

Although that might have been unconnected, since David had the same food and was fine.

In the late afternoon sunshine, we drove out onto a sandy track in the middle of nowhere where the bird book had said we might see bustards at last. And there they were – about 100 of them. Along with a little owl, a marsh harrier, and a bunch of vultures plus a golden eagle circling over a mangled sheep’s carcass. And to think I was worried about what I’d eaten!

Nice people, shame about the bustards ...

28.2.12

THERE’S no escape. The first British people I talk to in Spain turn out to be from Amesbury. And what’s the first thing they say when they learn that I have been working for the Salisbury Journal? “Why did your firm get rid of the Amesbury Journal?” I am unable to provide a satisfactory answer. Indeed, I have often wondered that myself.

Well, the last couple of days have been a real mixed bag. We drove down to the Renaissance town of Cacares, a World Heritage site, which we (or I, at any rate) hope to explore tomorrow. On the way we parked under some roadside trees for lunch and found that they housed a huge colony of nesting storks, who made entertaining, if somewhat wobbly, company. We also saw a peregrine falcon yesterday, the first of the trip.

One good thing about this latest campsite – each pitch has its own little terracotta-tiled wet room.  One bad thing – there’s nowhere really to walk the dog. All the land in this part of Spain seems to be either fenced off with ‘Private Hunting’ signs or strewn with razor-sharp bits of old tin can and broken glass. Poor animal is reduced to being tramped round on a lead on grotty access roads, and hasn’t had a good run for a while.

And we discovered today why you never see a camper van in a Spanish village – it’s because they get stuck in the narrow streets. Guess how we discovered that? In Arroyo de la Luz, where I did nevertheless manage eventually to see the wonderful 1565 altar-piece by Luis de Morales at the Iglesia de la Asuncion.

The church was closed actually, but having left David investigating a strange noise coming from one of the front wheels and trying to figure out how we were going to get the van out of town, I decided not to abandon hope but to accost the nearest stranger. Amazingly, he spoke just enough English to understand that I was disappointed not to see the church, and flagged down a passing car containing the parish priest, who was heading home for lunch. After a lengthy exchange  in Spanish which it’s probably best I didn’t understand, he offered to open up again and let me look round. I thanked him profusely, and made a mental note to mention how genuinely friendly and helpful all the Spanish people we’ve met so far have been, even though we speak barely a word of their language.

So while David’s been searching without success for great bustards on the steppes, I’ve been mugging up on the Spanish phrasebook.

And the strange noise? Turned out to be a spring clip from a brake pad, apparently, which was scraping on the wheel. Nothing to worry about. Makes me glad, though, that I married someone who does have a clue about these things.

Bloody Arsenal

February 26, 2012

WE’VE spent the last two days birdwatching in the Monfrague national park.

Despite decidedly bendy and narrow mountain roads, causing an occasional attack of the jitters to the passenger in a certain large vehicle, it’s a wonderful place, with zillions of vultures – griffon, black and even a couple of Egyptian - circling just a few feet over our heads, not to mention a golden eagle, black storks, and black and red kites.

The Hymer has behaved beautifully, and it’s so nice taking your home with you everywhere you go, so you can make a cup of tea – not to mention a smoked salmon sandwich - wherever you want. Glen has adapted happily to spending most of the day snoozing on one of the seats, and only occasionally barking at passing Spaniards when we’re parked. As long as he gets a good walk before we set out and again when we get back to the camp site, he’s fine.

Another new bird for me yesterday was a very pretty blue rock thrush, posing obligingly for a photo. David saw a Spanish imperial eagle but I managed to miss it. We’ve seen thekla larks, a black redstart, a hoopoe, and cormorants with white necks, which turned out to be a North African race, rather than a separate species.

The sheer numbers of birds in Spain, compared with Italy, are a joy. Even on our site, the air is filled with the chirping of countless sparrows foraging for crumbs. And up in the mountain viewpoints, or miradors, the trees are alive with the humming of bees, going about their business without bothering anyone. In fact, the absence of insects of the pesky kind is a real bonus.

We breakfasted today on toast – dry-fried in the frying pan  - with Alison’s marmalade. And the night before last I ate goat for the first time – a kid stew in the site restaurant. It was tender and not at all goaty, although this being Spain, it was very oily. Felt very daring. Other than that, we’re barbecuing.

Oh dear, and Spurs lost 5-2 to Arsenal after being 2-nil up.

Sex on a telegraph pole

Friday Feb 24

THNGS keep getting better. We awake to find a small market in progress a few yards down the road, where we stock up on fruit and veg though I totally fail to communicate with the cheese vendor in my abysmal Spanish, and retreat in confusion. 

A few more purchases in the supermarket bring my total spending in the little town to 22 euros, which just goes to show that providing free parking for motorhomes makes great commercial sense.

A knockout view across several valleys to the snowy, Sierra de Bejar y Candelario greets us on the start of a hair-raising drive through precipitous, twisting mountain roads little wider than the motorhome. The mid-morning Extremadura sun is like a hot summer’s day at home, and it’s time to break out the sleeveless T-shirts.

A sudden smell of burning – something to do with our brakes, which are being severely tested on the downhill stretches – fills me with terror, which in turn irritates the driver, but luckily a timely sighting of 16 black and griffon vultures all circling overhead together, along with a couple of ravens putting on a courtship display, takes our minds off our troubles.

As we descend, the pine forests give way to olive groves and all along the main road towards Cacares are storks nesting – and at one point, actually having sex – on top of telegraph poles and pylons.

A quick change of plan, when we mugged up on the bird life of the Monfrague national park, saw us turn back to a campsite just outside Malpartida de Plasencia, where our ACSI Camping Card secured us a discount on a very pleasant pitch complete with pool, restaurant, electric hook-up, laundry, and azure-winged magpies in the dog-walking field next door. At 5pm it was 23 degrees in the shade of our pitch.